


Oxford style

by equestrianstatue



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: A CHEERFUL STORY WITH CHEERFUL TAGS, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Background Hope/Jakes, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Homophobic Attitudes to Child Abuse, Uneasy Acquaintances With Benefits
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 03:52:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17134424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/equestrianstatue/pseuds/equestrianstatue
Summary: Worst thing about Morse, always had been, was that air ofknowing. Came off him in waves, whether he actually knew the first thing about what was going on or not. Though it was worse, infinitely worse, when he did.





	Oxford style

**Author's Note:**

  * For [omnishambles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/omnishambles/gifts).



> Set mainly in between 3x01, Ride, and 3x02, Arcadia.

He was drunk when he did it. No surprise there— he was drunk more nights that not, recently. Though Morse being around to see it was unusual. Morse being around at all was something of a miracle, as far as brass were concerned. The prodigal, wasn’t it.

It had been a long couple of months. No Morse, and no Thursday for most of the time, either, although he’d been back behind the desk far sooner than any doctor could possibly have given him the all clear. So plenty of extra graft at the station, for a while. Not to mention how much of the grafting went on the Blenheim Vale case itself. Weight of Division down upon Cowley like a ton of bricks. Had to stand up in front of the inquiry, all of them. Thursday barely out of hospital, leaning on the back of a chair when he thought nobody was looking. Bright’s rehearsed statement, in that thin, high voice of his, not wavering. And Jakes, too, after them. Felt like every word was being dragged out of his mouth with a fishhook. Clogging, sticking in his throat.

He was sick, once he was done. Cold and sweating in the bogs, knees on the tiles, gripping the seat until his hands hurt. Nothing to throw up except his lunch, but he retched until the back of his throat felt raw.

Shaken him up good and proper, all told, trawling through the whole sorry business again. Thought he’d left it well behind. He’d been a different person when all that had happened. Just a kid. Couldn’t have done anything if he’d tried. And now— well, this time, moment of truth, he’d been holed up in the Flag like a fucking coward. How he’d grown, then.

Not that he could have made much of a difference this time round either. Fat lot of good Morse had done, riding out there like the cavalry. Hole in the lung for the old man, and a spell inside for him. Something to be said for cowardice.

Jakes didn’t go up to Blenheim during the case. Not once. Couldn’t have stuck it. Hadn’t been since, either. He didn’t even really like to think of the house still being there, sitting empty, gutted out, like nothing had ever happened inside it. But months later, once Morse had come back to work, he realised that what he liked even less was knowing that Morse had been there. The thought of him picking his way through the same rooms, across the same floors. Somewhere that Jakes would never have spoken about, wouldn’t even have had to think about, if that bloody journalist hadn’t gone digging it all up. Could have stayed a memory that Jakes barely shared with himself. And now Morse, of all people, had walked right through it.

He’d started dreaming about the place again. Nightmares, stupid ones, kid stuff. The sort of dreams he hadn’t had for years. One where he was hiding in a cupboard and somebody was looking for him, and there was the knowledge, squeezed tight around his thumping heart, that if he was found there he would be beaten. One where he was out in the gardens, and then a dead boy’s hand pushed up through the ground, terrifying and rigid and white.

The dreams woke him up, freezing cold and clammy. Sometimes he was sick then, too. Though he’d been drinking more, so it probably wasn’t just the dreams. In the mornings his hangover felt like a hand roughly cradling the back of his head. Even after he’d splashed his face with water, downed enough coffee to shove the worst of it away, the headache stayed on, most days. Left him tired, tetchy, uneasy.

It was hard enough dealing with Morse at the best of times. But like this? The way Morse had started watching him from across the room, from behind his typewriter, like he could see it written all over him, could see the weight of it round his neck. The way that Morse had been particularly civil to him, since he’d got back, even though he was all spikes and sharp edges to almost everyone else these days. The idea that Morse might be— sorry for him. Pitying him.

So it had been a mistake, what Jakes did. He’d meant it as God knew what. A sort of threat, a warning. Back off. Leave it be. Something that might shake Morse up a little, throw him off balance. Only it had come out all wrong. And Morse had reacted wrong, too.

Jakes had never had much trouble with the birds. He had enough cash and enough charm to grease the wheels. And the last couple of months had been no different. Or maybe they had. He’d been a bit more determined about it. Came with the drinking. Last few years, he’d either had a girl or two on the go, or else nobody steady, but he’d go looking now and again. But for a little while now it had been both at once. There was Ivy from the secretarial college, and Carol the coat-check at the Assembly, and Hope from over at Lady Matilda’s, and most nights one of them would come back with him, or let him come to theirs. He could still turn it on, could still make them laugh. And if none of them were around, he’d find someone else. He could stump up at the bar. Smile still worked.

So it was unusual, that night, that he was looking at going home alone. He’d been trying it on with a pretty little receptionist in the Eagle, but no dice. She’d just left when last orders rang. So he went up for a final pint, but there, propping up the end of the bar, was Morse. Here by himself, then. Same as Jakes. Only he would have been surprised if Morse had had company beforehand.

“Wotcher,” he said.

Morse downed the end of his whisky and nodded in response.

Jakes said, “One for the road?”

Morse shrugged, nodded again.

Jakes lit a fag while they waited for the barman. Morse watched him do it, and said, “No luck, then?”

“Beg pardon?” Jakes said, around the first drag.

Morse inclined his head towards the door. “Your girl.”

“Staking me out, were you?”

Morse rolled his eyes. “I’ve better things to do.”

Jakes looked down at his empty glass, the paper next to him on the bar— the bloody crossword, obviously. “Do you?”

“Gentlemen?” said the barman, so he was saved Morse’s response.

“Same again,” said Morse, instead. “Double.”

Jakes said, “Make that two,” and got Morse’s raised eyebrows for his trouble. “What? Special club, is it?”

“Evidently not.”

The drinks came. Jakes pulled an ashtray towards them.

“So how’s it been here?” Morse said.

“What do you mean?”

“You know. Since I’ve been away.”

Jakes shook his head. “You know it all already.”

“And— how about you?”

 _And you?_ Jakes nearly asked. _The nick treat you well, did it?_ Instead, he said, “What about me?” Took the cigarette out of his mouth so that he could drink.

Morse was rubbing the pad of his thumb in a restless little motion against the side of his glass. “Oh, I don’t know.”

“So why ask?”

Morse rolled his shoulders. “All right.”

“All right?”

Morse nodded. Looked back at his crossword.

Jakes wanted, really, not to be there. He wondered why he hadn’t just gone home. Why he would give Morse another excuse to look at him the way he had been doing lately, and at even closer quarters. But he couldn’t get through spirits quite as quickly as Morse did, even now. So he sipped at his whisky, feeling it hot in his throat, pooling in his gut.

Morse finished his crossword. Jakes finished his cigarette. They both finished their drinks. And later, retracing his steps, Jakes did remember them leaving the pub, crossing the road, his pea-coat pulled tight around him. He remembered wondering if Morse drank so much just so as not to feel the cold, in that thin old coat of his.

“I’m— ” Morse gestured into the alley past the Flag, with a hand shoved deep into his pocket. “Short cut.”

“Me too.” Jakes didn’t know where Morse lived, he realised. One thing and another, they’d never done a chucking-out time together before.

They walked on in silence, and Jakes was just groping in his pocket for another cigarette, when Morse said, “About what happened. Before I went away.” Jakes drew in a thick breath, but Morse was already saying, “When I came to find you that night, I wasn’t thinking, and— ”

“Leave it.”

Morse had stopped, turned to face him. Made Jakes stop walking too, halfway down the alley, just behind the back of the pub. “Peter, honestly— ”

“You deaf or something?”

Morse looked annoyed, finally. Mouth twisted into an irritated little grimace, lips pressed together, hands still stuck in his pockets. Looked at Jakes, who was twitching with energy, fag hand halfway to his mouth, not yet lit.

Worst thing about Morse, always had been, was that air of _knowing_. Came off him in waves, whether he actually knew the first thing about what was going on or not. Though it was worse, infinitely worse, when he did.

Jakes would have done anything in that moment, probably, to startle the awful bloody complacency out of him. He remembered getting his face up close to Morse’s, and feeling the warmth of his breath. And what he’d thought before he’d kissed him was: _this’ll show him_. He remembered, very clearly, having the thought.

To begin with, it seemed like maybe it had worked. Morse had gone completely rigid. Stunned. Then he’d pushed Jakes away from him. Jakes had never seen Morse look quite so surprised, before or since. He remembered thinking that, too.

Morse said, “What are you doing?”

Jakes hadn’t answered. He had been wondering pretty much the same thing. And maybe there was something in his face— the flush, or his open, wordless mouth, or his hair come out of place, falling into his eyes— that meant Morse could see him wondering it. Maybe that was why Morse gave him that long look, the same as he gave a statement or a photo that was out of place, that didn’t fit his latest theory. A puzzle. And maybe that was why Morse leaned in and kissed him in return. Soft and rather confused, just for a moment. But then, suddenly, harder. A challenge. Jakes took him up on it.

Then it was something they were pushing back and forth between them, rough and fumbling. Morse’s hands were at his shirt, his collar, scrabbling to hold on, and Jakes was holding his chin, his face, keeping him still. He wound a hand into his hair, and Morse didn’t stop him. It was making him feel heady and hot. He was drunk. It was horrifically stupid, horrifically dangerous. When they paused he felt queasy. It was turning him on.

Morse was breathing fast, his eyes bright. He was frowning. He said, “I didn’t think— ”

Jakes bit out, before he could finish: “I’m not like you.” Sharp-edged, chin up. By which he meant: queer. But also _queer_. Brain built wrong. Odd, strange, lonely. Not caring about the things that mattered and caring so much about the things that didn’t.

Morse, baffled, gave him a look that said plainly: _I know_.

Jakes took a step backwards, pushed his hair back into place. He thought his hands might be shaking. He needed that cigarette, although he’d dropped the one he’d been holding on the ground. He pushed the edges of his palms into the sockets of his eyes.

“Do you want— ” Morse was saying, but he paused, trailed off. Eventually, Jakes forced himself to look. Morse was still staring at him. Then he said, “Do you want to go somewhere?”

Jakes bit at his tongue. He couldn’t think how, how, he could have got himself into this. His skin was prickling, his cock heavy. “Yeah,” he said, after a moment.

Morse hadn’t been to his place before. It was a ground-floor flat, poky, tidy enough. Jakes had thought: his territory. Somewhere that he knew, and that Morse didn’t. Only Morse was interested in it, even now. Of course he was. He could see Morse’s eyes running over the front room as he stepped inside, as Jakes locked the door behind them, flicked on the light. Taking in the washed-out three-piece, the Escort back issues, the lace curtains his landlady had put up. Made Jakes feel exposed, somehow. Made the back of his neck feel warm.

“What?” he said, to Morse’s back.

Morse turned to him, confused. “What?”

They were just stood looking at each other now. Jakes took his coat off, hung it on the peg next to the door.

“You want a drink?”

Morse nodded. No surprise there. Jakes could have done without another, he suspected, but he poured them both a whisky anyway. Morse had taken off his coat, too, folded it over the back of an armchair.

“Been here long?” Morse asked.

“Couple of years.”

“Not too far away. From work, I mean.”

Jakes nodded, absently. The small talk, the politeness, made him feel uneasy too. The pretending. Why not just get it over with, if it was going to be done. So he drained about half of his glass, put it down on the top of the cabinet, and said, “Right, then.”

“Right, then,” echoed Morse, sounding half-surprised, half— what? Amused? Jakes felt the booze, the discomfort, swilling in his belly. Morse was downing his own drink in one swallow, eyebrows raised slightly as Jakes came towards him.

Jakes took Morse’s empty glass out of his hand, put it down beside his own, and kissed him again. A hard press of lips. Only Morse kind of— sank into it. Laid his hands flat against Jakes’s chest, slipped them under his jacket, so that Jakes could feel the warmth of them through his shirt. Jakes’s own hands twitched by his sides, and then he had Morse by the shoulders, the forearms. Pushed him backwards against the side of the settee, until Morse pushed back, just enough. More like he’d done earlier on. He was trying to get Jakes’s jacket off, and Jakes slid out of it himself, in the end, before he could snap any of the threads at the shoulder. Morse shrugged off his jacket, too, dropping it behind him onto the settee. His hands made fists in the loose material of Jakes’s shirt.

Neither of them were quite the type for a fight, Jakes supposed, not properly, but there was a scrappiness about this. Jostling up against each other. Like they used to do when Morse first started, those needling little tussles. But there’d been no other thing for it, the way Thursday used to look at him. Mouthy streak of nothing, not three years out of uniform and thought he was God’s gift to CID— Christ. And worse, Morse acted as if he didn’t realise what he was getting handed to him on a plate, the old man taking to him the way he did. Still sulked, gave plenty more lip than should have been allowed him, made trouble for himself at every turn. Went off on his wild goose chases. Never a thank-you for the leg up.

Jakes had assumed Morse was queer, to begin with. The self-inflicted distance. The strange sensitivity. The opera. Then, after a while, he’d thought he was just hopeless. And now—

“Um,” Morse was saying, somewhere near his mouth. His hands were lower now, much lower, resting on Jakes’s hips. Jakes felt himself press forward, looking for— Morse’s knuckles dragging just below his belt, little ridges of pressure. Jakes had thought maybe he’d done for it tonight, that he’d be too far gone to get it up, but apparently not, even though his head was swimming.

“Yeah,” he mumbled, “yeah— ”

But Morse was kissing him again, his hands back up at his sides, curving gently against his ribcage. Fuck, it was like being with a girl. Had been Morse’s idea to come here, and all.

Jakes put his hand down between Morse’s legs. Not _exactly_ like being with a girl. Morse’s breath hitched and he came forward again, harder this time. Pushed Jakes up and back against the fading wallpaper near the front door, ground his own hips forward, just for a moment. That was more like it. Quick, snapping. And Jakes didn’t mind Morse’s mouth going to his neck if at the same time, finally, he pressed a hand against the front of his trousers, let Jakes rub up against it until he couldn’t stand it any longer.

“C’mon,” Jakes said. He wriggled his shoulders so that Morse was knocked backwards, just slightly. Then he had room to reach down, unbuckle his belt, thumb open his fly. When he looked up, Morse was just breathing, mouth still open from where it had been pressed to his skin, below his jaw. Jakes lifted his hand and spat into it. Morse swallowed, and then went for his own belt.

It was a quick enough business. Morse went off first, which Jakes hadn’t expected. Jakes was pressed back against the wall, eyes closed, teeth together and breathing hard— and then he’d felt Morse’s mouth on his again, unfocused and sloppy, drifting along his jaw as Jakes turned his head a little to the side. Morse went still as he finished, messy, abrupt, done. Like he had no sense of self-preservation— or maybe just as if he didn’t get his end away all that often. But then, afterwards, he went on with Jakes much slower, taking his time about it. At least until Jakes muttered, “For fuck’s sake,” and Morse picked it up again, tugged him off properly, fast as you like.

After it was over, Jakes went back to his coat by the door, pulled his cigarettes and his lighter out of the pockets. Lit up. When he snapped the lighter closed, Morse was watching him, tucking in his shirt.

“You must be— ” Jakes said, as Morse picked up his belt, threaded it through the loops. “Desperate.”

Morse made a noise that might have been a laugh. Looked Jakes up and down, his rumpled shirt, his mouth dragging deep as he could on the cigarette. He didn’t say anything.

“The missus chucked you, is it? Jailbird doesn’t do it for her?” Morse’s jaw shifted, slightly. “Some of them like that, you know.”

Morse gave a tight little exhale of breath. “If you’re wanting me to leave— ”

“No, no,” said Jakes, waving his hand in the air, smoke trailing. Though he did want him to leave, very much.

Morse was right. Desperate wasn’t it, exactly. More like— reckless. More like, since he’d got out, some part of Morse had stopped giving a shit. What with his disappearing act, and then getting mixed up in that case out by the lake, with the black tie set. If anything, he’d been even quicker to argue, even quicker to sulk, since he’d started back. None of the wide-eyed innocence, any more, or the pretence of it.

Morse was gathering up his jacket from the settee, his coat from the armchair. “This has been…” He sighed, shrugged. Didn’t finish the sentence. Looked around again at the room. Hadn’t even made it to the bedroom, let alone the little kitchenette, the lav. The whole tour.

“All right,” Jakes said, nodding, cigarette back in the corner of his mouth. “You can see yourself out, then.”

*

Jakes didn’t know what he’d expected the next day would be like. Well, head like a steamroller had gone through it, gut threatening to heave up any moment, mouth bone dry around his first fag of the day: that he had expected. But shouldering the door open to the station, seeing Morse already at his desk, he felt— well, a bit like he’d felt when Morse had first walked into his flat. The same twisting, unnameable discomfort. Christ, he’d been drunk last night, but not so much he couldn’t remember it.

Morse glanced up, met his eyes, and looked down again, immediately.

They didn’t speak. Or rather, they didn’t speak until Thursday called Jakes into his office late morning, and then— Jakes’s stomach sinking— “You too, Morse.”

They stood side by side. Jakes stared straight ahead at the old man, stock still. Could feel Morse shifting from foot to foot next to him.

“You remember Charlie Greaves, Sergeant?”

“Sir.”

“Semi-reliable informant,” Thursday was saying, looking at Morse now. Catching him up. “Runs with a small-timer or two now and again, though not usually trusted with much real information, seeing as he’s so easily turned by anyone who’s willing to pay for it. Helped bring down Sid Keithley a few years back, though, which means there’s some of us will still give him the time of day.”

Jakes felt a sudden stab of irritation, bringing Morse in on this. Whatever Greaves had gone and done, Jakes already knew him, was perfectly capable of dealing with this on his own. His beat. Couldn’t Thursday let a case go by without having Morse turn it into one of his bloody jigsaw puzzles? He resisted the temptation to pinch the bridge of his nose. God, he needed another coffee.

“Anyway,” Thursday said, “A little birdie’s called to say he might be able to tell us something about those break-ins round Jericho way. In person, though, naturally. Midday at the covered market. Take some cash.”

Morse said, “Only needs one of us, surely?”

Thursday frowned in surprise. “Well,” he said, “if you’ve a better idea of what does and doesn’t deserve your attention…”

“Sorry, sir,” Morse cut in. “Midday.”

“Best get a move on, then, hadn’t you,” Thursday said, eyebrows raised.

A bristle of awkwardness hung in the room between them. Even Jakes could feel it, pushing its way through his hangover. Well, Morse had always been good at turning a room cold. Although Thursday was usually spared it. But then, like everyone said, Morse hadn’t been himself lately.

Jakes didn’t look at him as they made their way out of Thursday’s office, picked up their coats from their desks. But once they stepped out into the corridor, he couldn’t help it. When he glanced up, Morse was eyeing him, too, expression so openly wary that Jakes almost double-checked that there was nobody around to see it.

This was it, Jakes thought, his headache banging against his temples. This was the moment where one of them was going to have to say something, but God only knew what. Or else, he realised, this was the moment where neither of them would say anything, and so it would be agreed that there was nothing to be said. By the time they got out of the door and onto the street, it would be one or the other.

The pale green of the peeling paint in the corridor only made Jakes feel more ill. Their two sets of footsteps echoed off the floor. Seemed to go on forever, the sound rattling round and round the inside of his skull.

Morse was still looking at him. He swallowed. Then he said, “Do you want to drive?”

So: as easy as that. Jakes pulled his fags out of his pocket, and said, “No.”

*

Only it wasn’t as easy as that. It was less than a week later— Jericho house-breakers safely in the cells, thank you very much, Greavesy— that Jakes got drunk enough to be turned down by Hope, when he called her from the phone box on the Broad. “Go to bed, Pete,” said her voice, tinny but smiling, he could hear it, “and call me tomorrow.” But he couldn’t go to bed, not like this, not alone. Couldn’t crawl under the cold blankets and into whatever was waiting for him when he closed his eyes. So he went back to the White Horse, where the tail-end of the East Oxford lot were still drinking. Morse was there too, had been tucked away in the back by himself all evening. Quarter of an hour later, when Morse left, Jakes followed him, caught him by the arm in the street outside. Morse stared at him for a moment, face blank, genuinely confused. Then he followed him home.

It was all a bit easier, this time. Second go round the block, wasn’t it. Nothing that needed saying.

And then a handful of nights after that, too. Morse was far from being Jakes’s first choice for company, in any sense, but— he was always there. The last resort. Wasn’t like he was ever off anywhere else having fun, getting any better offers. And once or twice it was even Morse who started it, or at least it was him who caught Jakes’s eye, quick but surprisingly bold, from the other end of the bar. Made Jakes lose his train of thought, first time he did it. Made his collar feel tight and his skin go hot. Flustered, almost irritated. The cheek of it. Jakes was still his superior officer. Took Morse home again that night, though.

Sometimes he still wondered if Morse might talk. You never could tell. His word against Morse’s, if it ever came down to it. Jakes wasn’t sure which way it would go if he did, which of them would be in deeper shit. Jakes had done a stupid thing, the first time, unutterably stupid, in giving Morse something like this to get his teeth into. Something else for Morse to look at him and know.

But it was unlikely. Not as if they were talking to each other, let alone to anyone else. Seemed they’d come to some agreement that this was a wordless, breathless thing. Just the reality of the quick, quiet scuffle, of Morse’s hands on him in the yellow light of the early morning. Jakes would never have thought it, from the way Morse held himself, most of the time— so stiff and stooped and separate, that prickly awkwardness, like he’d do anything to avoid coming into contact with another body. But he touched Jakes a lot, when nobody else was there, pressed his face against his skin, kissed him. Not lovingly, but needingly. In the dark.

Jakes let him do it. Better than being alone. He lay back on the bed in Morse’s shabby little flat, lights off, let Morse crawl on top of him and kiss him until he stopped thinking about it, until his senses had been grated down to nothing but a thoughtless, thumping want. He was drunk, of course: they both were, that never changed, always at the tipping point between thinking any of this could possibly be a good idea, and being too far gone to see it through. Though sometimes they tipped over the edge. Once Jakes couldn’t get it up, and, unexpectedly embarrassed, just sent Morse away. Once Morse passed out in his armchair before they’d even got started. But mostly they got it done. And tonight was no different, except that by the time Jakes realised Morse was going down on him, he was genuinely too surprised to do anything about it.

Morse had shifted back to kneel between his legs, still dressed, tie pulled off and collar loose, and looking at him felt— uncomfortably intimate. Usually they didn’t really even have to look at each other during, but Morse was right in front of him, his head bowed. Jakes would have to look at him tomorrow, too, and the day after, and remember this, remember the sight of him coming up again, Jakes’s cock sliding from between his lips, his eyebrows raised. “What?” And then, when Jakes didn’t reply, “You don’t like it?”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Jakes, voice hoarse.

Morse rolled his eyes, and dipped his head back down. It was— it was quick, and sloppy, and not even that good. Not as good as the birds who you could tell had had practice, who sucked on it like it was a lollipop. But all the same. It was hot and wet and he did like it, obviously.

The quiet in the room felt obscene, somehow, with the noise of their breathing, the old bed creaking as Morse shifted his weight, the gentle sound of Morse’s mouth moving. And then, unexpectedly, Jakes felt Morse’s fingers digging into his hips, his mouth sliding further down. “Fuck,” said Jakes, startled, unprepared, “ah, fuck— ” and he came, thick and sudden.

Morse drew back, coughing, annoyed. Spat into his hand. Glared at him like he hadn’t known what the fuck was going to happen.

“Sorry,” said Jakes, in a way that he knew sounded like he wasn’t, though he hadn’t meant to do it.

Morse climbed up and off the bed. Went to the sink, left him where he was. Jakes lay back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the tap running.

“If you think you’re getting the same,” Jakes said, into the air, “you can think again.”

The tap turned off, and Morse, wiping his hands on his trousers, turned towards him. “I didn’t _expect_ — ” he said, and then sighed. “It’s not about one-upmanship.”

Jakes, who, he supposed, had thought that was exactly what this was about, didn’t reply. But eventually he propped himself up on his elbows, and said “Come on, then.” Watched Morse pick his way back to the bed. Got his hands on Morse’s bony arms through his shirt, then got his hands down his trousers, and got him off as quickly as he could. Which was quick enough, because he was getting used to what did it for Morse, apparently. Jakes kissed him, briefly, hard and punishing, when he could tell he was close, because that was what Morse usually tried to do. Then Morse’s mouth went slack against his face, breath hot on his cheek, lips mouthing at his skin for a moment before he tensed and came.

Morse’s flat hadn’t really been what Jakes had expected, the first time he’d come back here. Why not, he’d thought. Bit of variety. But it was so empty. And still somehow a mess, too. Jakes supposed he’d been picturing, what?— wood panelling, paintings, a decanter on the shelf? Not really, of course, but all the same. It was a hollow little shell of a place, aside from the empties in the corner, the shirts left out for ironing over the back of a chair, the stack of records next to the pile of books. Jakes didn’t need to look through either pile to know there’d be nothing decent there.

But Morse hadn’t seemed particularly bothered. Like it didn’t matter, where he lived. He’d just hung his coat and jacket on the back of the door, pulled off his tie and hooked the loop of it over the back of the chair next to the shirts. Told Jakes to make himself at home.

“See much of Joanie these days?” Jakes asked, now, sitting up on the bed, around his fag. It came out sounding like a taunt. He supposed it was meant to be.

Morse shot him an odd look. “Now and again. Not really.”

“Me neither.” Morse was beginning to look uncomfortable, and Jakes leaned into it. “Wasn’t going anywhere. Shame, though. She’s a looker. And not a bad kisser. Reckon she’s any good in bed?” The stiff silence coming off Morse now was almost thick enough to touch. Jakes exhaled, watched the smoke curl up towards the cracks in the ceiling. “You could find out, you know that, don’t you? She’s got it bad for you. God knows why.”

“Fuck off,” said Morse, not looking at him. As if this conversation was inappropriate, as if Morse hadn’t just come all over him. Jakes wasn’t sure he’d ever heard Morse tell anyone to fuck off before.

“Hey,” he said, sharp, trying to sound like he wasn’t smiling. Like they were at the station, Morse out of line. “None of that, thank you very much.”

Morse said, rolling away, “You can let yourself out.”

*

Jakes was right. He thought about it. He thought about it for days. He watched Morse across the station, with that bloody habit of clicking his pen, tapping the end of it against the bow of his bottom lip, off in some dream world. Caught himself watching. Got up and went somewhere else.

Hard not to see it as a challenge, really, especially coming from Morse. _You didn’t think it would go this far, did you?_ Or even: _You can’t do this, can you?_ Would be exactly like Morse to push and push at something just to find out where the breaking point was. And now maybe he thought he’d found it.

Or maybe he’d just wanted to drag Jakes down a level, one step further into things that you don’t do, things that you don’t allow to be done to you. Except that wasn’t what had happened, not really. They were still in the world of things that could be explained away. Pulling someone off was schoolboy stuff, didn’t mean anything. And a mouth on your cock, well, it was still a mouth. Didn’t matter that much whose it was. It was Morse who— who ought to be ashamed of himself. But he didn’t seem to be. Or at least no more than he usually was.

It wasn’t really something that Jakes could see how you’d enjoy, sucking somebody off. It was a favour, wasn’t it. Birds did it because they were supposed to, or to get you hard, or because then maybe you’d be more likely to do something for them in return. Although queers were supposed to like it. Everything the wrong way round, upside-down, wanting a cock put in you instead of wanting to put your cock in someone else. But Morse hadn’t looked exactly like he’d been getting off on it. More like— well, more like he’d wanted to see what Jakes would do if he did it. And maybe what it would do to Jakes. Jakes wondered what he’d looked like, how much of the shock and the drunken arousal had been obvious in his face. He wondered what Morse would look like getting the same. Tried not to.

Jakes avoided Morse as best he could, most of that week. Stayed away from him after work, certainly. Surprised Hope with flowers, which he nearly chucked away on the way to hers, thinking it wasn’t her kind of thing— but it worked, unexpectedly, and he ended up spending the whole weekend with her. She found him funny. Found the flowers funny, apparently. He was all right with that. She didn’t pity him, because she didn’t think there was anything there to pity. She liked his accent. Jakes hadn’t known that he had one.

Monday, though, was bad. If he’d thought he could somehow fuck the idea out of himself, he’d been wrong. Even with Hope still warm in the back of his mind, the way she’d got him out of his clothes almost as soon as he’d come round, and then climbed on top of him with most of hers still on— “It’s funny, you see,” she’d said, grinning, “because I really _am_ a cowgirl,”— the sight of Morse in the morning still made his fingers twitch, his stomach turn.

If Morse noticed the way he was looking at him, he didn’t say anything about it. But then, near the end of the day, when Jakes was pulling on his coat, glancing at his watch, Morse looked up at him and said, “What are you doing on Saturday?” Jakes just stared at him, and didn’t reply, until, only slightly awkwardly, Morse said, “I’m moving house.”

“Oh.”

“And I could use a hand. Only if you’re free.”

“Oh. Right.” Jakes shrugged. “Yeah, if you want.”

“I’d ask Strange,” Morse said, looking like he thought he had to explain himself, and maybe he did, “only his sister’s getting married, and— ”

“All right. Borrow a car, yeah?”

“That would be good.”

Jakes was about to leave, and then, realising he was interested, said, “Why’re you moving?”

It was Morse’s turn to shrug. “I don’t really get on with the neighbours.”

Jakes found this conversation going round his head that Saturday morning, carrying boxes and suitcases and piles of records down the stairs from Morse’s flat and into the car. He already knew that Morse didn’t exactly make friends easily. Or at all. Strange, he supposed, was the closest he got, and it wasn’t as if the two of them had much in common. Strange was just easy-going enough not to mind when Morse was in a sulk, and inoffensive enough not to rub Morse up the wrong way as much as most people did. Maybe that was all friendship was, when you came down to it.

But Jakes had never had trouble making friends. Making people laugh, making them like you, getting them on side, that was easy. Then you had a pack. A gang. When you were carted around as much as he’d been, back in the day, it was do that or be done for. Nothing more terrifying than being the one on the outside looking in. Unthinkable. Unsurvivable. How Morse stuck it he couldn’t imagine.

He didn’t stay for a drink, after they’d got all the stuff in to Morse’s new place. Not in that dingy little basement, just him and Morse and the thin bits of sunlight that could poke their way down the stairs and through the front window.

Instead, he went into town. Just walked around for a while, looked in the windows of shops. Not going anywhere in particular, not looking for anything. Just moving through the bits of the city he knew best, knew inside out, where he was safest. The pubs, the pool halls, the back alleys. And the places where he disappeared, too, where the students looked right through him, their eyes slipping over his face and his coat and his fag. Leant against the park railing just outside Lady Matilda’s, smoking, watching them all come and go. Like he didn’t exist.

Came back again later that night, though. Thought that Morse might be out, might have taken off for a drink somewhere else, would be in one of his usual pub corners. Thought he’d just walk past the flat and check. But he could see the dim yellow light behind Morse’s drawn curtains, and when he made his way slowly down the stone steps to the door, he could hear the raggedy strains of music Morse was listening to inside.

Morse looked surprised to see him, but he didn’t ask what he wanted. Just let him in, gave him a drink. Was a good way through the bottle himself already, it looked like. He even turned the music off, when he caught Jakes’s narrowed eyes on the record player.

“Right, then,” Jakes said eventually, which felt like an echo of something, like he’d been here before, but he didn’t know how, since Morse had only been in this place less than half a day. “Sit down.”

Morse frowned at him, but when Jakes pushed gently but firmly at his shoulders, he sat down on the end of his new bed. And when Jakes knelt in front of him, Morse’s eyebrows almost disappeared into his hair, but he didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask him what he was doing, or tell him that he didn’t have to do it. They both stayed there, like that, for a moment. Then Morse lifted up one hand to loosen his tie. Reached down to undo his belt. Paused, and then opened his trousers and pulled out his cock, held it with his long fingers, and just— waited. Looked down at Jakes and waited.

Jakes sucked in air through his teeth and took hold of Morse’s cock. Hand fairly tight. Moved his thumb. And then, holding his breath, not thinking about it, thinking about every stretched-out second of it, he lowered his head and put his mouth on it.

Then he stopped. Above him, Morse grunted and shifted slightly. So Jakes carried on, pushed his mouth down as far as he dared, until any more would be uncomfortable, until he wouldn’t know where to put it. Which wasn’t all that far down. He didn’t really understand how you were supposed to get any further, but— this was more than enough. He wasn’t trying to win any fucking prizes.

He pulled his lips back up, to the very tip. Down again. Up and down, slowly, loosely. It all seemed doable enough. And it seemed to be doing something, because Morse made this quiet sort of groan. Then Jakes felt Morse’s hand, quite lightly, on the top of his head. Not pushing, not grabbing his hair or even holding on to it, but Jakes knocked it away all the same, and pulled his head back, and said, “Get off.”

“Christ, all right,” said Morse, voice tight. His thigh was stiff under Jakes’s left hand, his cock quite hard by now, and Jakes— didn’t mind that. Didn’t mind making him sound so terse and taut. Morse had dropped his hands to his sides instead, and Jakes could see him running his fingers over the material of the bedsheets, circling his thumbs in it, and then gripping, suddenly, when Jakes started up again.

It was no great performance, but beggars couldn’t. And Morse was desperate, of course, must be, to keep doing this, to have let Jakes back in. He was wriggling a little now, making these shuddery little moans once he got really hard, when Jakes started to get into some kind of a rhythm, maybe.

Not long after, he felt Morse’s hand on his head again. He reached up to push it away, irritated, but there was another hand at his shoulder, more insistent. Pushing him gently backwards, getting him to stop. So Jakes stopped, and leaned back. Morse had his head tipped upwards, not looking at Jakes, breathing through gritted teeth. Trying not to come. But before Morse had a chance to settle, before Jakes had a chance to look at him for too long, he pulled his hand all the way up Morse’s wet cock, over where his mouth had just been, and watched Morse push helplessly into his fist. Then it was only a couple of quick tugs before he was done, leaning forward, gasping it out into Jakes’s hand.

Then there was quiet for a while, aside from Morse breathing heavily above him. Jakes looked at the floor. His knees were numbing, he felt a bit cramped, but— he wasn’t _not_ hard.

When he looked up again, Morse had come back to himself, just about. Jakes pushed himself to his feet, knees cracking, kicked off his shoes, started unbuckling his belt. He liked this, Morse sitting there looking spent and pliant on the bed and the thought of— climbing on top of him, of putting his cock somewhere.

“Right,” Jakes said, again, “kit off.” Morse blinked up at him, almost wary, but Jakes said, “Off,” and tapped his calf with his foot, and Morse did as he said.

Jakes skinned out of his own clothes. Morse was looking up at him with the crease of a frown on his brow, like he couldn’t quite work out where this was going, what Jakes was going to do. Well, let him try it for once.

Jakes motioned him backwards, and Morse shuffled towards the headboard, let Jakes kneel down on top of the bed. He looked like he wanted to say something. Ask something.

Jakes grinned. “Relax,” he said. “I’m only going to— ”

The mattress was old, weirdly springy, as he moved forward across it. Worse than Morse’s last. Jakes wrapped a rough hand around his own cock, Morse watching him intently. Pulled at it, once or twice. Then spat into his hand and did it again, and that was better, slicker and slipperier. Thought about the fact that he could still taste Morse in his mouth.

He nudged Morse over onto his side, gripped hold of one of his shoulders. “Stay still.” Then he bumped his cock up against the back of Morse’s thighs, spit-slick. Then he did it again, but this time Morse got the picture, and made enough of a gap for him to push it through.

Jakes drew in a tight, sharp breath, and kept doing it. Moving long and slow to start with, but getting faster, until it was just a quick, hard rutting. Morse was propped on one elbow, open-mouthed, damp-haired, watching him do it— until Jakes dropped his head forward, made a choked sort of noise, and came in between his legs.

For a little while he lay there, his forehead touching the dip of skin between Morse’s shoulder blades. Felt Morse breathing. Then Jakes sucked in a breath of his own, and sat up, pushed his hands over his eyes.

Morse said, “Are you— ” and Jakes didn’t even look at him, just held up a hand, and Morse stopped speaking. Funny, that. Usually the devil’s own to shut Morse up. But Jakes could still do it, sometimes.

“Have another drink,” Morse said, eventually. Jakes glanced up. Morse had pulled the edges of the blankets round himself, looking tired and messy, staring at Jakes with that awful, knowing expression. “Get dressed, stay here for a bit. Or we could go somewhere else. It’s not that late.”

That was the point, wasn’t it, not to be alone? But the thought of being looked at by anyone, let alone Morse, was somehow impossible to bear. Jakes wanted, for the first time he could remember in a while, to be as far away from everybody in this city as he could get.

“No, you’re all right,” he said. Pulled his head up, pushed his hair back. “I’ve got to go.”

Morse stayed where he was as Jakes climbed off the bed, found his shirt on the floor. “Peter,” he said, to Jakes’s back, “everything that happened at that place— you do know none of it was your fault, don’t you?”

Not talking about what he’d been doing with Morse, and not talking about anything that might have been done to Jakes, once, in another life: they were one and the same. The idea that one might be connected to the other, by some twisting, dark, silent thread, was one that slipped into Jakes’s hangovers, his post-sex silences, his cold-sweat awakenings in the middle of the night. The only thought worse was the idea that Morse might be thinking it too. Denying it, probably. But pitying him, either way.

“Don’t,” Jakes said, not turning round, his voice flat and cold and expressionless. He shoved his foot into the leg of his trousers, his hands gripping the waistband so that they didn’t shake. He wondered if Morse could see. “Just don’t.”

Morse didn’t say anything else. Just quietly watched him dress, and then let him leave.

*

It was mid-afternoon two days later when Hope called him at his desk at the station.

“How’d you get this number?” Jakes asked, voice low, into the cradle of the phone.

“How do you think? The front desk put me through, Sergeant Jakes.” A pause. “I need you to come over.”

Jakes looked up and down the office, drummed his fingers against the edge of his desk before he caught himself doing it and stopped. “I can’t. I’m at work. What’s going on?”

“Then at least call me back from somewhere else,” she said, and the line went dead.

Uneasy, Jakes stuck a fag into the corner of his mouth, pulled on his coat, walked up the road to the nearest phone box. Hope picked up on the first ring, and said, “Pete?”

“Yeah. What is it?”

There was a horrible, terrifying sort of pause, and then Hope’s voice said, “I’m pregnant.”

“Oh, fuck,” said Jakes. And then, “Is it definitely— ”

“Yes, you fucking asshole.”

Silence. Jakes’s head fell forward with a small, dull thump against the glass window of the phone box.

“So are you coming over?”

“Yeah,” he said, and hung up.

Though for a little while, palms sweating, he just walked, aimlessly, in the direction of town. Went past the little bedsit where Hope lived, and carried on. God, he thought he’d run out of ways to fuck up, but he’d missed the big one. The gold medal. He wasn’t stupid, he’d always been careful, last thing he’d ever wanted was some bird turning up nine months later with a screaming baby, but— well, too late now. Blown it, hadn’t he.

Only when he’d thought about it before, it had always been a horrible, faceless sort of vision. Not— a real kid. Tiny, terrified. And not a real woman, either. Not someone he liked. Jesus. Hope, with a kid, imagine. A little boy, maybe.

When he showed up at her place an hour later with a ring, she stared at him like he’d grown another head.

“No,” she said, after a short, stunned silence. “I’m not marrying you.”

Jakes, head ringing, said, “Why?”

“I just— that’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“Why not? What’s wrong with me?”

Hope pushed her hair back from her face, looking tired and kind of confused. “Jesus, this isn’t _about_ you, Pete, there’s nothing _wrong_ with you— ”

“Of course it’s about me,” he said, voice uneven, “it’s my fault, isn’t it, if I— ”

“That doesn’t mean I have to _marry_ you.”

“But I’m saying I _will_ marry you. I’ll make it all right.”

“How will that make it all right?” Hope, her face tense with anger or worry or both, stood there and stared at him with her hands on her hips, and then suddenly said, “God, are you crying?”

He was. He put his arm in front of his face to try and stop it, and turned away from her. But she pulled him back round again, and said, “What the hell?” and then he held on to her, and she held on to him, and she let him cry into her shoulder until, at last, it was over.

His head hurt, but his insides felt slightly less knotted up. He stepped back from her, and wiped his face, and said, “Sorry. I’m really sorry.”

“Yeah,” Hope said. “Me too.”

Then she made them both some coffee, and they lay down together on the single bed in her tiny little room, side by side, and she cried, too. He stroked her hair, carefully, softly.

“I’m going to keep it,” she said. Jakes felt a quick, hammering shock inside his chest. It hadn’t occurred to him that she might not.

“All right,” he said.

“And— I really like you. I do. But I have to… I can’t stay in Oxford. I’m going home this summer. You know that. I was never going to stay here.”

Jakes bit at his lip, and looked up at the ceiling, and said, “I can’t, either. Stay here, I mean.” He stopped, amazed, but then said it again. “I don’t want to stay here. I want to leave.”

She turned to look at him, surprised, and said, “Huh.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this story, you can also reblog it [on tumblr](https://justlikeeddie.tumblr.com/post/181713539067/oxford-style-equestrianstatue-endeavour-tv)!


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